♦ Four weeks. Broken eggs. Downy feathers.

♦ Cut ten inches. Long now short.

♦ I wanted it so badly. Why?

And I thought writing a novel was hard! I’m going to keep working on my brevity, but I’m not sure I’m ready for a career as a six-word story writer. Not yet, anyway.

Think you have what it takes?

Narrative Magazine is looking for your super short six-word stories, among other things.

Guidelines:

A Six-Word Story should provide a movement of conflict, action, and resolution that gives the sense of a complete story transpiring in a moment’s reading.

Payment: $50 for each six-word story accepted for publication. You may send up to five stories in a single submission.

Submission Fee: $15 fee for each submission. Additionally, you receive three months of complimentary access to Narrative Backstage.

Formatting Your Manuscript: 12-point type, with at least one-inch margins, and double-spaced. Your name, address, telephone number, and email address should be typed at the top of the first page.

You may also include a brief biographical note with your submission.

Today would mark one week since Joe started coming to the church on 4th Street in the middle of the day. One week since his unceremonious termination at an impromptu lunch. Almost 25 years of service, countless weekends and canceled vacations; not so much as a thank you. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Arriving to the massive architecture promptly at 7 am that fateful morning. This was his usual. After another late night of editing and making sure everything was just perfect, Joe would rise early and beat the morning rush into the office. A cup of steaming hot black coffee in his left hand, briefcase bursting under his arm Joe would slide his company keycard watching the lights change from red to orange to green. Opening the door to Bob the security guard’s friendly smile, “Good morning, Mr. Martinelli.”

“Morning, Bob,” he would smile as he walked towards the elevator. His keycard safely clipped to his shirt, Joe pressed the button. The building was peaceful and the ding of the elevator arriving would echo in the foyer. Stepping inside he would press for the twenty-second floor. Planning his day as the elevator started its ascent, going over every detail of last night’s revisions already working them over in his mind. The lights on the numbers slowing climbing 10, 11, 12.

Characters and plot lines, romance, danger, suspense, always the same. Will the girl choose the good guy or the one with the bad boy image? Will the hero escape the seemingly inescapable peril he has gotten into, again? It was getting harder and harder to differentiate one work from another. Except for the one.

Joe almost couldn’t put it down. It spoke so clearly. No horror, no typical sameness that had become the publishing world as of late. This was real. Relatable. And it had been tossed aside like last night’s pizza. No one was interested in touching it.

Ding! The elevator doors opened and Joe stepped out in the dimly lit hallway. In the hustle and bustle of the day the eggshell colored walls would fill with the shadows of editors and their secretaries, writers, publicists, mail clerks, and salesmen. With the sun barely peeking through there was a sense of calm serenity. The eye of the storm where all is peaceful right before all hell breaks loose. Boy was that ever an understatement.

image credit

this writing prompt is part of 1000wordsmeme

“Aaahhhhhhhhh!”

“Feel better?” asked Jack.

I looked around and remembered I was in a building filled with people. I was not alone. “Not really,” I replied.

“Are you feeling alright?” Livie, my kid sister asks me, “and did you just answer me before I asked the question?”

“Huh? No, I was just thinking out loud,” I answer absently and not at all like the crazy woman who just yelled for the whole world to hear. Didn’t I just see Jack? What was that about?

“It’s okay. Let’s go. I don’t think a movie is a good idea right now. These people are all looking at us like we are freaks or something,” Livie talks with just a hint of snippiness. “Ya know, if you didn’t want to see this you could have just said so. It’s not like there weren’t other movies we could see.”

“I’m sorry.” I think. I was not sure what came over me. One minute I am waiting in line for a movie and the next I am yelling like a banshee. I was feeling better, though. There is something to be said for those primal urges. Although there has got to be a better way to express them, like in the woods alone. All of those people looking at me. I think I scared them, a little.

Livie and I walked to the Jeep. The night was cool and clear. Autumn was creeping over the land and it was a welcome change from the extreme heat of the past summer. It’s my favorite time of year. Something about the change of seasons. The year winding down. I can smell the apple cider and Thanksgiving turkey as soon as August nears its end. Soups and stews and family gatherings. Spring may bring new beginnings and pretty flowers, but Autumn brings family and pie.

Image courtesy of Batikart .

Once upon a hot summer day, a little girl set off on an adventure. With her balloons in tow she headed to the highest point she could find, a tree in her own back yard. Tucked in each balloon was the message, ‘I hope this balloon finds you well. You are someone special. Julie’ 

A few days passed when Julie spotted it; a balloon with something inside. She popped it open and found a note which read, ‘Julie, thank you for your kind words. It really brightened my day. It’s lonely out in space.’

[94 words]

This post is part of Genre Shorties Prompt Week 12.

This week’s genre is YOUR CHOICE. 

This week you choose the genre but I get to choose the first or last sentence of your story. I’ve had an old Steely Dan song stuck in my head today. Choose one of the following lyrics from songs I’ve been singing this week to be the first or last sentence of your post.

• I’m never going back to my old school.
• It’s lonely out in space.
• You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes
• It’s fun to stay at the Y.M.C.A

image courtesy of Heartlover1717.

Dear People Running This Show,

What is the world coming to when the price of beans is less important than who is using what cell phone[s]? As if talking, texting, and continuous online shenanigans is on the same level as actual sustenance. And to think they make reality tv shows revolving around this drivel. Oh, and those shows are drivel, too. It’s high time we all banded together and brought back true values like talking about the weather and which high calorie foods to avoid. Now, that is something I can get behind!

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen
[98 words]

This post is part of Genre Shorties Prompt Week 11.

This week’s genre is Editorial.

Suppose that all of the country’s major newspapers gave you column space this week. Here is your chance to share your raves or praise for one or more of the following:

• Cell phones
• Reality TV shows
• High calorie foods
• The Weather
• The price of beans

Image courtesy of Cody Pomeroy.

Days have passed and the images, the sensations, the [sigh]. It is as if time stood still. For those few hours the world faded away.

She lay next to him, their legs intertwined, his hand gently stroking her arm and he spoke. He spoke of life, his life. More words than he has ever said. She listened.

She listened as he spoke of those things you hold deep inside. Surprised he shared his troubles, comforted he trusted her. No words could she speak to lessen his doubts; she kissed him. Lovingly, softly.

He responded to her touch, moving closer, pulling her to him. His lips on her neck, her cheek, her mouth. His hands following the length of her body. Her hands tracing his face, fingers running through his hair, down his back, inching ever closer.

When these moments come around there is little thinking. Afterward, analysis strips away their special qualities. Meaningful moments become feelings to scrutinize, actions to pick apart. “Does he love me?” she will think. Maybe he does the same, maybe not. Is this what is meant by the Mars/Venus thing? Is it really different worlds or only different perspectives?

She wants to remember those moments. Not to tear them apart, but to savor like a fine wine. Roll it around on her tongue, drink down the very essence, his essence.

She closes her eyes. He holds her close. His mouth finding his way over hers. His tongue searching, tasting. She allows herself to be carried into the moment. Like the waves of the ocean lapping upon the shore, the feel of him washes over her. As a smile creeps upon her face, she drifts off into sleep with the memory of their morning still upon her.

Santa is coming!  Santa is coming!  Those are the cries heard throughout the house. 

Everybody rushes to the windows.  The kids, six in all and ranging in age from 6 to 12 years, run into the room to catch a glimpse of Old Saint Nick.  My mom points and asks if I am excited.  I turn from the window and run into the other room.  Santa is here and I am not sure I am ready.  I am the baby of the group, ya know.  And I have unresolved feelings about Santa.  I love the presents, but he scares the bejeezus out of me!

One of the aunts would dress up as Santa every year.  The kids would take turns sitting on “Santa’s” lap, telling him what good boys and girls we had been.  I would get bubble bath in what looked to be a champagne bottle.  Pink, of course.  Then Santa would leave and Nanny and PopPop would uncover all of the presents; they hid them under the covers on their bed.  I was always in awe.

It is hard to believe that was more than 30 years ago.   I believed in Santa Claus until I was a teenager.  I know, many people would not admit to being so naive.  But I saw him all those many years ago.  And I am thankful I was able to hold onto my childhood so long because of those Christmases.

Now it is just an empty room, in an empty house.  Nanny and PopPop have passed on.  All of us kids are grown; my kids are teenagers.  I look out the window.  Still hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa below before turning to leave.

This work was inspired by Writing Prompt Number 38 at A Thousand Words.

Image courtesy of Jayneblonde.

While going through a box the other day I happened upon a few pieces of paper (two are dated 2001, so I will assume the third was written the same year).  One had lyrics to the song Hanging By A Moment by Lifehouse, one was a strange dream I had, and the other was the following:

It starts off normal enough.  You wake up; brush your teeth.  Then you comb your hair and pack your lunch.  Maybe you eat breakfast or grab a cup a coffee before running out the door.  Must beat the traffic, right?  Oh, that is right.  You live the rural life where the only traffic jam is the slow moving tractor.  You know the one.  It just left the barn and is heading to the fields, down the road.  Way down the road.

Change – the one thing in life that is always constant. Makes sense, really. The weather changes; sometimes in the moment. One day you look outside and it is green and lush with vibrant colors of blue, pink, red, yellow. The next it is burnt orange, brown, mustard yellow, dark red. And then it is gone. The trees are bare; the flowers gone. Hot and humid, then cold and windy. It is quite inspiring at times and depressing at others. Change – you can not escape it.

Today is a bare, lifeless day. Overcast and dreary sort of like my life at the moment. Oh, but I remember the vibrant days. The days of full blown color. And then there was him. The glances and long lingering looks. The quick kiss when someone could walk up at any moment and catch us. The long lingering kiss where I lost myself for just a moment but never wanting the moment to end. Those days I will never forget.